


Something We Can Work On Together

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Cookies, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Meet-Cute, minor household repairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: That’s how Whiskey finds himself in the basement of the Haus with Blake, who is, apparently, the upperclassman captain of the LAX team. Dex, Bitty, and Nursey were apprehensive when they showed up together, but after a whispered conversation about how “what Shitty doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” they agreed to let Blake take a crack at the washing machine. He’s currently reaching all the way into the washing machine and Whiskey, currently, has no safe place to look aside from the water heater. Except that says FUCK THE LAX TEAM, which is the least safe thought in Whiskey’s head right now, so even that isn’t a good option.“How’s it going?” Whiskey asks, trying not to stare directly at Blake’s ass._________________________Whiskey/LAX Bro. Whiskey's POV.





	Something We Can Work On Together

**Author's Note:**

> SIDENOTE: I know there's potential for Whiskey & Bitty angst in fics like this and there is none here bc I personally didn't want to include it, so! Happy Valentine's everyone <3

________________________

 

Whiskey’s at a party at the LAX house when Dex texts the group chat about the death of the washing machine.

_ sorry everyone, _ he says.  _ no resurrections this time. _

“What the fuck are they talking about?” Chad L shouts, reading over his shoulder. Whiskey elbows him off him. Chad L’s ability to read personal space boundaries decreases exponentially when he gets drunk. “‘No resurrections this time?’ That’s fucking dark, man.”

Whiskey watches the rest of the texts roll in. “It means he’s been hanging out with Nursey too much,” he mutters, then says, louder, “The washing machine in the Haus broke.”

Chad L squints. “I wanna. Laugh at that, if that’s okay by you.” 

“Live your life,” Whiskey says, shrugging, and Chad L laughs at that. 

He types out a quick  _ watch out the fines are gonna go up  _ when someone taps his shoulder. He’s going to ignore it, but the person says, “I can fix that.”

Whiskey turns.

And immediately, very uncoolly, drops his cup all over the shoes of the single most attractive man he’s ever seen.

“Shit,” he blurts. “I’ll grab — yeah.”

He darts for the kitchen, hoping someone in this house keeps stock of paper towels. That usually doesn’t happen; he’s usually so much better about keeping his cool around beautiful people, but apparently his ability to keep cool decreases exponentially when he’s been drinking too. 

There’s a whole roll of paper towels on the countertop by the sink. He snatches up the whole thing, splashes water on his face, and shoulders his way back through the party.

The guy watches his approach with amusement clearly evident in his face. “You okay there?” he asks, and fuck, he’s got a nice voice. He takes the paper towels from Whiskey and starts dabbing at his shoes.

“Sorry, I don’t know,” Whiskey starts, then stops. “You can fix washing machines?”

“My dad installs them,” the guy explains. “I helped him after school before college.”

Whiskey’s saying “You don’t have to, we can get another one” before he realizes, which is infuriating, because what he wants to say is  _ do you wanna make out a little? _ and currently the best way to maybe have that happen is to let him fix the washing machine.

“I don’t mind,” the guy says, smiling at him. It’s a good thing Whiskey isn’t holding another cup. “If they don’t mind I’m with the LAX team, I think we’ll be fine.”

____________

 

That’s how Whiskey finds himself in the basement of the Haus with Blake, who is, apparently, the upperclassman captain of the LAX team. Dex, Bitty, and Nursey were apprehensive when they showed up together, but after a whispered conversation about how “what Shitty doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” they agreed to let Blake take a crack at the washing machine. He’s currently reaching all the way into the washing machine and Whiskey, currently, has no safe place to look aside from the water heater. Except that says FUCK THE LAX TEAM, which is the least safe thought in Whiskey’s head right now, so even that isn’t a good option.

“How’s it going?” Whiskey asks, trying not to stare directly at Blake’s ass. 

His voice echoes when he responds. “Almost got it.”

Whiskey doesn’t have anything to say to that beside “Chill,” which means maybe he’s also been spending too much time around Nursey.

“Very,” Blake agrees. 

It’s an awkward position in which to start a conversation but Blake does it anyway. He asks Whiskey about how long he’s been playing and what he’s studying, which leads to a debate on whether or not the guy who teaches Econ 231 was on the Disney Channel ages ago.

“No way,” Whiskey tells him. “He’s too old for that. No way the Disney Channel existed back then.”

He can’t see his face but he knows Blake’s rolling his eyes at that. “‘Was there a Disney Channel,’ pssh. No way it hasn’t been around for a hundred years by now.”

“Yes, because television’s that old.”

Blake points a screwdriver at him without standing up. “Give it a few more years, Whiskey.”

The use of his name adds to an unnamed something in Whiskey’s chest that’s been building since the party, which will be what he tells himself later as an excuse for blurting:

“Sorry for spilling on you, you’re the prettiest man I’ve ever seen.”

Blake stands up so quickly he slams his head into the lid of the washing machine. He swears, loudly, pressing against the back of his head with his hand. Whiskey watches all of this in horror.

“Holy shit I’m so sorry — I didn’t mean to say that do you need ice?”

“Ice would be good,” Blake says weakly.

____________

 

Whiskey holds a bag of frozen peas to the back of Blake’s head in the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Bitty in the living room with Chowder, clearly debating whether or not to come in and check on them. Whiskey mouths  _ I got this _ . They both nod, and he hopes dearly that he does, in fact, got this.

“I’m beginning to think this was a set up,” Blake says ruefully.

Whiskey freezes. “What?”

“Beer on my shoes, a head injury…" He trails off at the look on Whiskey's face. "I’m joking, to be clear.”

“This doesn’t usually happen,” Whiskey says. “I’m not a clumsy person.” Blake just raises his eyebrows. “Okay, drunk me can be clumsy. But the head thing, this was all you.”

“Agree to disagree. I was provoked.”

Dex comes into the room before Whiskey can chirp him for that.

“What’s the verdict?”

Blake says, “She’ll live. I can come back and check it out again tomorrow, if you—”

Dex interrupts. “I can take it from here. Thanks for helping out.”

His tone is an unmistakable dismissal. Blake’s eyes flit between Whiskey and Dex and back again.

Whiskey wants him to stay.

“Happy to,” Blake says, meeting Whiskey’s gaze, and then he leaves.

____________

 

He stews over this for a week.

Chowder says, “If you’re into this person, maybe try talking to them?” when Whiskey brings it up, careful not to name him. “Seems like they made an impression, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“They could say no.”

“They could say yes too,” Chowder says significantly. He bumps their shoulders together. 

Tango spews a mouthful of cookie crumbs across the table. “Why not?’

“True,” Whiskey says slowly. He sweeps some crumbs off the table, thinking. “Hey, Bitty?”

Bitty pokes his head in from the living room. “What’s up?”

“Would you — will you help me bake some cookies?”

____________

 

He gets eggshells in the batter, but Bitty shows him how to scoop it out using larger eggshell pieces and sets him to work on the egg beater once they’ve rescued the recipe. It’s calming, this. It perfumes the kitchen softly sweet and makes the room lighter somehow. For the first time he understands how Bitty likes it so much.

It’s rhythmic, and they get the pattern down quickly. Whiskey spoons the dough onto the baking sheets and Bitty adjusts them carefully so they hopefully don’t stick together in the oven and every 8-10 minutes they pull out another tray, let those cookies cool, before setting them aside and starting the process over.

“Are these for a certain someone?” Bitty asks after they have three dozen cookies cooling on the counter. 

Whiskey analyzes his tone briefly, then says, “I have someone in mind.”

Bitty nibbles carefully at one before taking a huge bite. “This is the best they’ve ever come out,” he says, pleased. “They’re a lucky person.”

Deliberately, Whiskey says, “He is,” and Bitty smiles at him.

They stack the cookies carefully. Bitty offers a hug and he takes it, surprising them both, and Bitty wishes him luck.

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. He crosses his fingers. “I’m hopeful.”

____________

 

Blake’s just as pretty as the week before when he opens the door. “Hi,” he says, smiling.

“Hey,” Whiskey says. He swallows around his nerves and holds up the cookies. “Wanted to apologize for, uh. The other day.”

Blake laughs. “I’m usually better at accepting compliments from attractive people too,” and Whiskey’s proud of himself for holding onto the cookies this time. Hope flutters in his chest.

“Maybe that’s something we can work on together,” Whiskey says after a beat.

Blake says, “Could be,” and he takes the cookies. “Do you wanna come inside? We’ve got a hockey game on.”

“If I do, are you sure you’ll be able to keep from falling over?”

“Watch it,” Blake says, but he’s laughing again. It’s a beautiful sound. “Come on in.”

Whiskey does.

____________

 

Whiskey’s watching a movie in Blake’s bed at the LAX house when the Polar Vortex fucks their collective shit all the way up. His pocket buzzes from the group chat.

_ pls don’t die everyone, _ Nursey sends.

_ ^^^ stay where you are! let me know if y’all need anything, _ Bitty says next, and Whiskey angles his phone toward Blake.

“Guess I’m staying the night,” Whiskey says. “Captain’s orders.”

Blake kisses him now, soft and sure, and it’s still a marvel that this is happening. That they’re allowed to be soft like this. “Can’t go against your captain,” he agrees.

“Well,” Whiskey says archly. He sits up and faces Blake head on. “I can think of one captain I’d like to go against.”

Blake leans back against his pillows and holds Whiskey by the waist, teasing his shirt. “Maybe that’s something we can work on together, too,” he says.

Whiskey kisses him back. He says, “Could be,” and they do.

________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> I'm on tumblr, [come say hi :)](http://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com/)


End file.
